Legend of the Marble Heroes
by IllChemist
Summary: Begins the night of the Recall. Overwatch is reborn, and members trickle into Gibraltar one-by-one, each changed by the five years apart. Struggles both internal and external plague the team as they try solve the world's crises and return Overwatch to its former glory. Aiming for a multi-faceted story that explores the team's morality, goals and humor through pockets of action.
1. Chapter 1 - Soldier: 76

_"You're one of those heroes, aren't you?!" she called to him._

Soldier: 76 shook the words out of his mind as he watched the girl practically gallop down the street towards her safe haven. Many might have had trouble catching sight of her moving on a typical, muggy night in Dorado, but the full moon gave him more than enough light that he hardly even had use for his visor. Her movement on the cobble roads was all too easy to see.

She as just a kid caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The pickpocket act was petty, worth punishing alone. When Los Muertos decided it was time to chuck a grenade in her direction though… Well, that was a kind of savage evil that 76 knew needed to be dealt with.

The door closed behind her as she called to her mother. He felt his face nudge slightly at the sight – was it satisfaction? No, he couldn't feel that anymore. Saving people was still the right thing to do, and deep down he knew that, but ridding the streets of the cancer that was the Muertos would have prevented him from ever having to save her in the first place. Familiarity swept over him as frustration settled in. He knew what needed to be done, and turned away.

Silence echoed off the walls in the illuminated streets. Odd, as the gunfire and explosions no doubt would have caught _someone's_ attention. Even LumeriCo's ziggurats didn't flood out that sort of commotion. And what had they been up to, anyways?

No… best not to go down that train of thought. One focus, one mission, one problem a time. That was how he needed to conduct himself.

76 found himself in the festival circle, its lights flooding the area with a warm, soft glow. The weight of his leather jacket came to him all at once as he felt the bitter sting in his side – a reminder of his sloppiness in polishing off Los Muertos with due efficiency.

Groaning, he lowered himself and sat down on a bench. Placing the rifle down at his side, 76 grabbed a canister from his belt, popped it open and threw it on the ground. A clean warmth enveloped him as the regenerative process began. Relief swept over him as the cut on his side started closing immediately. "Thank God for these biotic fields," he muttered with his gravelly voice. It was something of a miracle he even managed to grab them in his last raid. He knew Angela's… no, _Mercy's_ , medical technology could work wonders, but the sheer abundance of them was staggering. "What a waste."

Back in his day, these wounds wouldn't have bothered him, but he wasn't a young man anymore. He still had to come to terms with that. He had to come to terms with a lot of things. Ever since the explosion that nearly took his life finally brought an end to-

 _No._

76 couldn't afford to think of that. Still, Mercy had already passed through his head, and the seed had been planted. Overwatch… always in the back of his mind. Always reminding him of his failures. Failures to those he wanted to protect, and to those he loved.

That's when it happened.

The first thing he noticed was the dormant com-link lighting up. It had to be a malfunction – it _had to be_. No one would have the gall to re-initiate the com system and expect everything to be hunky-dory. Not even Len- _Tracer_ , could think that.

Overwatch was dead. There was nothing about it worth saving by the time it came crashing down. Even the ones who called it a family had the wherewithal to see that. Hell, it was that attitude that caused everyone to miss the seeds being planted left and right. The clues that they missed. The clues _he_ missed. Ana… Gabriel… Both with their demons, both so close to him that he had somehow managed to look past them. The girl's question crept into his mind again.

 _"Not anymore," came the quiet, hesitant response._

But was he ever a hero to begin with? He wondered sometimes.

Again, the com lit up. Then a beeping noise initiated. "Who in the world would even know how to link this system back up anyways?"

76's eyes darted around, suddenly paranoid of someone in the square – yet, still the streets remained so oddly quiet. Where was everyone? Surely the local police would've come by now. There had to be some reason these things were being swept under a rug. LumeriCo and Los Muertos… was there a connection?

The damn beeping again. "Winston…" he almost seethed. That's who would have the smarts to link everyone up, and that's the one who clung to the idea of family the most. Couldn't blame him. An ape with a PhD didn't do much socializing, he imagined.

It was the Recall… the program embedded in Athena as a fail-safe to rally the crew should things get too hectic for the world again. 76 thought on it a good long while, thinking about the memories had. Not all of them were bad, and he knew somewhere out there, that giant German oaf Reinhardt was already tearing open whatever carton held his combat armor for one last shot a glory.

And really, that's all the Recall was. Not a last-ditch effort to protect the people. People they ignored in lieu of their own advances before. Overwatch never tried to deal with local gangs. They never gave back to those who truly needed it. Their own big picture was all that mattered to them.

"Bring back Overwatch…" Bitter, he shook his head. "What's the point?"

Dorado's clay buildings remained quiet, if lit up. It was just him, alone in the aftermath of a celebration that couldn't have happened without Overwatch to begin with. The End of the Omnic crisis… it was so long ago. They had come together to accomplish something great. Things were so simple back then… just him and the Strike Team, taking on the world.

He suddenly felt isolated. Absent-mindedly, he rose from the bench and grabbed the pulse rifle once more. Whether Soldier: 76 knew it or not, he began walking towards the harbor, the girl's parting words plaguing the back of his mind as he drifted along.

" _I think you are."_


	2. Chapter 2 - Winston

_**Author's Note: This bulk of this chapter is a narrative version of the cinematic trailer - check it out if you haven't already! Blizzard's animations are great quality. Chapters hereon it will establish the POV character ahead of time**_

* * *

 **Winston**

The first thing he thought as he barreled through the museum's glass ceiling was how lucky he'd been up to this point. As he crashed into the ground and rolled over, he had a second thought: that was painful.

Winston recovered as quick as he could, but with reflexes sharp as a scorpion's tale, Widowmaker, the deadly Talon sniper who triggered the recent Omnic strife, had already zip-lined her way into an elevated position. She fired two shots almost instantaneous with her landing, each striking his white armor. The ape let out a roar, but immediately choked it back as he noticed two boys, the older one barely pushing his teenage years, cowering on the ground. Instinctively, the great ape moved to shield them from the hail of gunfire coming from the ledge.

As more shots were fired, he let out another frustrated grunt before noticing the fear in both of their eyes. In hopes of easing their concern, he gave a quick smile and adjusted his glasses. "Heheh… enjoying the exhibit?"

Coincidental as it may have been, his fight up to this point had been doing everything he could to prevent his foes from making their way to the Overwatch display at the museum. The atrium bathed in the afternoon sun, a dome of white stone and glass filled with the lore of heroes of yesteryear. Even through all the commotion, Winston had to muse over the fact that he wound up here barely 36 hours after he initiated the Recall.

Another quick burst of gunfire quickly broke that train of thought. "Alright," he said firmly as he shooed the adolescents away, ever-careful to keep them out of the sniper's line of sight, "Playtime's over. Get to cover."

The older brother, no more than fifteen and still with his blue hoodie covering his head, grabbed the infatuated younger one and began running towards the nearest pedestal. "Come on, move it!" he cried out as he practically dragged him away from the ape.

With the civilians out of harm's way, he turned his attention to the sniper, her pale blue face and sharp, yellow eyes hidden behind her grand rifle. She fired more shots, each near-hits grazing his head or hitting his surrounding armor. Winston knew he had to close ground quickly or else she'd connect with greater accuracy.

He burst forward in her direction, gaining ground and hope with every successful step. Always the optimist, he realized that it was possible to catch her before any damage could be done.

That's when he had the misfortune of hearing a familiar, raspy laugh. It didn't sound human – not that Winston technically had any place to talk – almost ethereal and other-worldly. In his focus on the two children, Winston had completely forgotten to account for his other deadly adversary, Reaper, and faced a harsh reminder of why he'd been beaten back so far. If Tracer had gotten his message and arrived on time, she may have proved to be the distraction that would have bought them the time they needed to fend these two off, but alas, Winston was on his own.

The man's (at least he _thought_ he was a human) involvement proved problematic from the get-go. With his seemingly endless supply of shotguns, and his odd ability to become incorporeal and teleport in a trail of black vapor, made him a dangerous opponent for Winston. In fact, it was him that had been largely responsible for Winston's decision to initiate the Recall in hopes of rallying his old family, the Agents of Overwatch, back to the cause. He'd tried to raid the facility in Gibraltar and obtain their locations while crippling the supercomputer Athena, and it'd only been through a lucky mistake that Winston had beat him back.

And yet, here he was again working with Talon with no doubt bad intentions on his mind. Winston hadn't expected him when he intercepted the transmission, and perhaps that was foolish. Stealing an artifact like Doomfist's Gauntlet, the glove that wreaked chaos over the years, would be no small task no matter how lax the museum's security was. Reaper had no official ties to Talon: he was simply a mercenary. But he was the best.

The phantom materialized in front of him, placing himself directly in the path to Widowmaker. Shotguns in hand, he stormed forward, firing shot after shot, backing Winston off and into a more precarious position at every moment. The ape bemoaned his foolishness in losing his Tesla Cannon in the chaos. The electrical pulses had beaten Reaper back before, but without it he was nigh-impossible to overcome.

Winston felt a wave of despair coming on. Widowmaker hadn't taken her shot, no doubt focused on retrieving the glove for Talon. He couldn't split his focus and stop these two – they were too skilled and too well-polished, each complimenting the other in their skills. If only it hadn't been today, if only they'd waited just long enough for whoever it was that would return to Overwatch to save the day, he might have a chance. But it was over, he'd fought valiantly, cutting them off at every pass, forcing them into alternate routes, but he was just one scientist. A powerful, durable scientist, but not a fine-tuned warrior like the others that had protected the world years ago.

He dared to steal a glance at the sniper's position. She had moved as he predicted, but her reason for bailing from her position came as a total shock.

A second female, slender as a snake but twice as fast, had managed to flank her. Her grace as she flipped high in the sky and drew her duel burst-fire pistols only indicated that there was only one person she could be. A sudden wave of excitement came over him as he spotted the familiar orange pants, goggles and wildly spiky brown locks. Tracer _had_ gotten his message!

She dashed twice, her chronal accelerator blinking her in his direction and took cover behind an adjacent pedestal. As if transitioning smoothly into old times, he knew exactly what her intent was, and leapt high in the air, bashing hard into the tile as Widowmaker backpedaled away from him. Unsurprisingly, the phantom of a man re-positioned in front of him and began unloading once more.

"Winston!" he heard her call out, her voice as thick with a cockney accent as ever. He placed his hand up as the shots wracked his armor, waiting for her to blink into it. She did just that, and with all of his might, he flung her forward, barely a stream of light as she landed between the two and watched as she began to fire at both of them, splitting them up in the process.

A chilling command came from Reaper. _"Die."_ His shotguns unloaded in either of their direction with surprising accuracy. With each connection, he seemed to grow more confident, surer of himself… Winston had never seen a man filled with such fire before.

The gunfire stopped briefly. A reprieve? Winston hoped so, but the phantom almost gave an ironic answer to the ape's inner-thoughts. "Yes…" Knowing that whatever was about to happen couldn't be good, Winston sheepishly put his arm up defensively.

A wave of black vapor swirled around Reaper. With everyone passing moment, it grew thicker and enveloped more and more of his body, and his evil laughter became a steady crescendo. The vapor burst throughout the atrium, damaging nothing but no doubt leaving something of a trail for him to target. He moved practically as an illusion, his arms so blurry, his body twisting quicker than Winston's eyes could keep track. The shotgun blasts bounced off the walls of the atrium, coming at such a rapid pace that it became impossible to distinguish them. Slag pierced the wall in every which direction. Glass exhibits met their inevitable demise. Perhaps the most worrying thing that Winston saw, though, was Tracer's chronal accelerator entering its recharge phase. Always the quick thinker, she sprinted backwards and ducked behind the nearest pedestal, narrowly avoiding a wave of fire that would have no doubt brought an end to her life… and as harsh as thought was and tough to swallow, this would not have been metaphorical as it was the last time.

Reaper wouldn't stop. If someone didn't try to do _something_ , Winston worried that the whole museum would be wrecked in the carnage being unleashed. Not knowing what else he could do, the ape abandoned all science and strategy charged directly at Reaper.

The effects of this were two-fold: Reaper's attention _was_ diverted, saving the people in the museum, but his attention was now solely on the scientist, and he unloaded with pure rage.

Each shot hurt more than the last. His armor was durable, some of the best in the world, but it had a roughly zero-percent chance of holding against this. If he could just hold out a bit longer… he could overcome the aching in his chest and land a clean blow. Yes! He could do it! Winston closed range sufficiently and swiped as hard he could with large, harry arm.

And he hit nothing but air. Reaper teleported at the last moment.

For the second time in barely three minutes, Winston landed hard on the museum ground. This time, though, the pain was excessive. His body was exhausted from the battle, no doubt because as per usual, he overdid it with the peanut butter – carbs were good, but not the ideal battle food.

As he struggled to get up, he heard glass shatter in the background, the museum alarm echoing in his head. The gauntlet… they had to be stopped. He couldn't move though. What's more, his glasses had been flung from his face as he crashed down, making it something of a challenge to even see. Focusing as much as he could, he desperately surveyed the ground for them.

He felt a small sense of relief as caught sight of them. Losing those glasses always worried Winston. After all, they were the heirloom of his adoptive father, Dr. Harold Winston, who meant more to Winston than most anything in the world, or the moon for that matter. He breathed easy, even in the dire situation, as he knew they were still there and intact. With great effort, he thought he could crawl over and grab them, but a black booth lumbered its way towards him.

He looked up and saw Reaper staring down at him. Slowly, he raised his shotguns and pointed them at Winston. This time, not as armor, and not his arm, and certainly not in any which direction, but at his _head_. The thought of what a point-blank blast like that could do… Well, he didn't think twice on it.

There came a brief moment of hesitance as the phantom's attention followed Winston's previous gaze. Noticing the glasses, Reaper casually lifted the ball of his foot, and in one swift motion, planted the sole of his shoe on the glasses.

Their crunch triggered something in Winston that he had always feared would happen: he went _berserk._ He would later on, rather honestly, tell people who heard about it that his memory was something of a blur. While very aware of himself and what he was doing, Winston could only pick up vague clues as to the happenings around him.

He swung a mighty left hook on Reaper, sending backwards and out of his shotguns' effective range. Distantly, he could hear Tracer cheer, though whether that meant she was back in the fight or encouraging her close friend could not be ascertained. Moments later, he caught her out of the corner of his eye, engaging Reaper from a separate angle, ultimately weakening his ability to dish out damage further.

Behind him, bursts of Widow's sniper rifle, now being used as some sort of makeshift machine gun, did nothing to distract Winston. Reaper was his focus, even after her shooting ceased for some strange reason. Best to assume that Tracer had distracted her.

Yet, there she was, now right beside him, backing Reaper off one step at a time. His black hood and (fittingly enough) white reaper-styled mask ducking away from that as triggered shot after shot after shot.

Then he was in leaping distance. Winston leapt higher and further than he possible could have anticipated, no doubt driven by his urge to damage the phantom in whatever way possible. As he arced over Reaper, he reached down, grabbing the man(?) with his two great arms. In one swift motion, Winston rolled through his landing and followed through with Reaper being flung above his head and then hard into the ground. While his hope for some sort of acknowledgement of pain was dashed when he struck silently, Winston made sure not to hesitate and attempted to pound down on his opponent with both arms, trying to crush him.

Reaper vaporized out of his grasp at the last moment, avoiding any damage. Momentarily baffled, Winston looked at both his hands. While he still felt snapped, reality began to creep back into his head. Controlled rage – this is what he needed to focus on. Gaining control while staying formidable, even without his trusted weapon by his side.

"Watch out!" he heard a shrill, young voice call somewhere to his right. Winston turned just in time to see one of the most insanely comical sights he could imagine: the older brother, a fifteen year-old with no training and no special abilities, wielding Doomfist's Gauntlet, stood behind the now-distracted Widowmaker. He called for her attention, and sure enough as she turned around, he reeled back and swung the mightiest blow he'd likely ever be able to muster. The shockwave reverberated throughout his immediate surroundings, and the femme fatale flew backwards through three glass displays, each shattering fantastically as she went through them. The gauntlet fell from the boy's hand, undoing the brief moment of sheer bravery he displayed.

Down but not out, he saw her rise and reach for her rifle. _"No!"_ Winston's thoughts shouted, _"They will not harm anyone on my watch!"_

He leapt forward, positioning himself between Widowmaker, and let out the loudest roar his lungs would allow. Simultaneously looking determined but unsure, she lifted her rifle and pointed it Winston's face, hoping to do as much damage as possible if she was about to be crushed. She could not, after all, just teleport out of sight the way Reaper could.

Luckily, a blue streak of light popped up behind her, and a scrawny Brit was the cause. Tracer pulled the rifle first, then blinked twice more, kicking the gun out of Widowmaker's hand grabbing it in midair. She began unloading the clip at Widowmaker's direction. Her unfamiliarity with the gun meant that very little shots even came as a threat to her target.

Cool and collected, Widow sent her grapple hook to the ceiling, right where Winston came barreling through to start this whole mess, and lifted off the ground. He caught sight of a black vapor trail zooming towards her, and then Reaper's form materialized as he grabbed her by the forearm. Always ready for whatever situation, the phantom dropped three live grenades to the ground as they lifted into the air and out of sight.

In his still-angered state, the grenades did little to actually deter Winston, and he charged right through the flaming blasts, and with three smooth, seamless leaps, dove after them, hoping to track them down.

* * *

Exactly how long it took for Tracer to catch up to him, Winston couldn't recall, but they were standing alone now, in the dropship. "No, I never even so much as saw them after they left the museum," he responded to her question.

Tracer sighed, but still remained her eternally-smiling self. "No worries, luv," she said, "The important thing is that we made sure they didn't get their hands on that gauntlet."

Winston pondered the statement for a moment. It rung true in his ears. His thoughts began to drift as he recapped the whole fight in his head – him fending them off at the start, the boy saving the day, his father glasses, crashing into the floor. It all came out of order, a bumbling mess. Chaotic memories did not suit Winston – as a scientist, he felt himself very orderly in his mind, even if his sense of external organization was a bit… rough.

"Well if you aren't going to do it, then I will!" Tracer declared.

Before he could even ask just what it was she was talking about, Tracer had blinked behind him. She leapt up off the floor, wrapping her arms around his neck as tightly as she could. The embrace came so fierce that Winton believe had it been any higher, she might have crushed his windpipe.

"Ah…" was all he could think to say.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Scientist," she said as she hung off his body. They had always been close friends, and he had dearly missed her over the years. They understood each other's importance in their lives. "It felt good to save your life for a change!" A soft reminder of the incident that initially displaced her in time – something only Winston had brought her back from when his theory on the chronal accelerator proved to be a practical solution. She let go and blinked in front of him, now smiling wider than ever before. "So tell me, Winston, who else has answered the call?"

It felt bad to shoot down her eagerness, but Winston knew the truth was of paramount importance. Honesty, he felt, would be the key to mending all of the severed knots between the former members of Overwatch. "I'm afraid thus far you're the only one to contact me." He saw her become slightly downtrodden, which always meant something serious, and did his best to remedy her doubts. "What's important, though, is that they know. They know the Recall has been activated, and that someone familiar with Athena had to initiate it."

"And soon they'll know at least one person's answered the call," she said, catching on to his train of thought.

"Precisely," Winston said. "Not bringing down Reaper and Widowmaker was… unfortunate. The probability of it though, was astronomically low from the very beginning. My only aim was to stop them and get the attention of the others."

Tracer giggled. "Some might say getting attention is your specialty!"

Winston couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, I suppose a talking ape with a PhD is bound to catch the eyes and ears of everyone."

They laughed together, and the rest of the night, they caught up on old times. It felt good to discuss their on-goings, even as Tracer struggled through her story of her failure to stop Mondatta's assassination at King's Row, and even as Winston explained the run-in with Reaper he had previously, as the man(?) expressed hellbent feelings on annihilating everyone associated with Overwatch. It felt good because they knew the other was there, supporting them unconditionally.

Their bond ran deep. Through good times and bad, they always had each other's backs. On some deeper level, Winston felt they rescued each other when they met. Not from death like miracle-worker Mercy could, and not from danger like chivalric Reinhardt would have, but from fear of being alone, and stuck that way for the rest of their lives. He and Tracer had a bond. They were not allies. They were not friends. They were family.

What's more, Overwatch was their family. A family that had to come together, because the world needed them. From the crime-filled streets of Dorado, to the war-plagued Russia, the world needed more heroes. Tracer being there signaled one thing to Winston: there was hope.

It felt like the myth of Constantine XI - the marble emperor who would one day rescue his people form the grips of tyranny. The family was going to come back together for a final hurrah.

He knew Overwatch's rebirth had begun.


	3. Chapter 3 - McCree

**McCree**

He'd come to this dive several times before. Granted, he wasn't exactly what you'd called an eastern kind of guy, but dives were dives wherever you went. The only that changed from coast to coast were who they were named after.

This one in particular had declared itself Old Tom's. It had the same feel as all of them: tiled floors, old-fashioned napkin holders and salt shakers, every surface somehow covered in another layer of grease each time you visited the place. The diner had a single counter stretching from the back wall and stopping just shy of the entrance, lined all along with short red swiveling stools – the kind the cowboy had, numerous times past, destroyed as a demonstration of his aim. The lighting was fluorescent; pretty dated, all things considered. Cars didn't need wheels, trains didn't need coal, but dive-style diners were forever.

McCree chuckled at the thought. It was no wonder that he grew so fond of these. After all, people looked at him in his old west get-up and immediately spotted him for the anachronistic kind of guy he was. Sure, he had a mechanical left arm that smacked of the modern age, but the cowboy hat and red poncho he sported could have easily been from a '70s Leone flick. A _19_ 70's flick, in fact.

Littered across the dive were various seedy patrons; McCree stole a glance at each one of them as he entered the room.

His presence always caused tension – after all, these were the sorts that he took contracts to take down. Every time he'd stroll through the doors, his spurs clinging with each easy step he took, some scrawny tattooed guy dressed like a steampunk superstar would throw a nervous glance his way, wondering whether they were the next on his list.

He never actually made a move in Old Tom's, though, and Old Tom was a big part of the reason why. The man had served the role as a confidant and quasi-therapist surprisingly well. Behind the bar as always, the thick middle-ager tilted his balding head at a regular patron, and signaled for him to take a seat.

McCree slid on to the stool easily. "Evenin' Tom," he started.

Old Tom leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the counter top, probably adding more grime to the already-existing layer. "Damn it, McCree, I thought we agreed that you'd let me know _before_ you decide to walk in here." His eyes darted around the room. "You make the clientele nervous."

The cowboy extended his arms outward, giving an amused shrug. "Easy, partner. Can't expect me to check in every time my stomach gets a rumblin'."

"No, I suppose not," he responded. Old Tom eased up a bit and rose from the counter. "Coffee as usual there, Jesse?"

McCree reached into his pocket and produced a single cigar. "No, Tom," he said as he bit down on it and moved to light it. "Thinkin' something a little heavier than coffee is in order."

Old Tom raised an eyebrow. "It's barely eleven in the morning, Jesse."

He fought back an instinctive urge to utter his usual response to time-related matters and bit his tongue. Now was not the time for casual phrases and trademark gestures. His mind bore a heavy weight, and he knew he couldn't let himself get distracted.

"Just get me a bottle if it please you, Tom."

Old Tom gave him another one over, and he likely saw what McCree had burrowed underneath up until this point. The man didn't want a drink, he _needed_ one. Never one to turn down a customer in need, Tom walked into the back area where he kept his booze and grabbed a beer from the nearby fridge. Jesse caught sight of him, even from the odd angle he was at.

"I appreciate the thought, Tom, but that's not the bottle I was talkin' about."

Somewhere deep down inside, McCree felt like this was a bad idea. He probably should have just accepted the beer, sipped on it slowly and contemplated his decision. Decision-making over whiskey always seemed to get him into trouble, but then, McCree was a troublesome kind of guy, and he thrived on poor decision-making.

It was that same lack of judgement that caused him to even be the man he was to begin with. Already a notorious member of the Deadlock Gang as a young teenager, McCree quickly grew in infamy for his skill with a revolver. He never knew if the notoriety started because of his aim or the old-school weapon itself, but he knew that in the end, it was his aim that became his saving grace. His mind ran back over that moment – his shots taking down agent after agent, reloading frantically and stunning them every given moment. Overwatch had taken down some of the most dangerous criminals in the world, and they'd singlehandedly changed the tide in the Omnic Crisis, but they just plain weren't ready for a kid like Jesse McCree. He'd taken out thirteen agents before he finally saw the writing on the wall; his supposed comrades had left him to die, each tucking tail one by one as their situation grew dire. Back then, McCree thought them cowards… now in his late thirties, he thought them rather smart. After all, they didn't stick around long enough to have a dual-shotgun wielding hardass rain hell down on them. Only then did McCree have the smarts to throw down his gun and accept that he'd been outdone – a move that both saved and changed his life. That damned Reyes had-

"You going to actually drink any of that, or did you just want to nurse it?" Tom's voice interrupted his train of thought.

He blinked twice stupidly, his cigar hanging limply from his mouth. McCree looked down and noticed a bottle of whiskey and a half-filled glass sitting in front him. Feeling his brown hair starting to dampen in the moist warmth, McCree sighed, snatched the glass from the counter, and took a large swig. "Ain't one for nursin'," came his southern drawl.

"Jesus, Jesse," Old Tom said, "What's got you so thirsty?"

McCree removed the cigar from his lips with his gloved right hand and tapped the ashes on to the floor. "Got a call from an old friend," he said. "Had an… interestin' offer."

Old Tom scratched the back of his neck as he pondered McCree's answer. "I thought you were out of that game," he pried.

Jesse wasn't sure which game it was Old Tom was referring to – the crime game or the Blackwatch game – but hell, they both basically meant on in the same in the end, so whatever answer he gave would probably be truthful.

"You know me, Tom," he said, "Always up for a challenge."

A sudden swat on the counter top interrupted the conversation. A single, sweaty bill sat underneath the arm of a young, nervous looking kid – probably no older than McCree's age when Reyes nabbed him transferring weapons. The shaky, uneased nature about him, barely a rail with a head of golden hair and looking green as could be, brought back more ghostly memories. "I hear whoever guesses how you lost that arm gets a fat stack," he said.

Ah, the initiation routine. Local ruffians made a habit of breaking in new blood by having them take a run at McCree.

Jesse reached over calmly, neither responding nor looking at the kid, picked up the bottle of whiskey, and poured another glass of amber heaven. Only after he picked the glass up and removed the cigar from his mouth once more did he produce a heavy stack of money, waiting to be won from him. "Well kid," McCree said, "Shoot."

"Okay, cowboy-"

McCree's brow twitched and his eyes narrowed. Before this went any further, he wanted to scare some sense into this kid. Faster than the eye could see, he drew his revolver and fired off a single shot at the ground, singing the kid's sneakers without actually hitting his foot. The _bang_ ricocheted off the walls, drowning the surprised cries of shock at the sudden interruption of the patrons' quiet routines.

" _'Cowboy'_ huh? Well, listen here, kid, you're young so I'm gonna let you off light, but you go trying to act big around other fellas, they won't be so kind as to mess up your shoes. They ain't as _forgiving_ as I am."

The young punk had backed off nearly ten feet, his eyes bugged nearly out of his skull at the shock of being shot at during an innocent game. As much as he felt bad for doing it, McCree had his reasons. He'd stepped out of lines around men far more skilled than him a number of times, and not just when he was kicking cans with the Deadlock Gang, neither. No, he'd tried to outgame Reyes on a number of occasions. Each time he'd try to sneak one past him and have a drink on the clock, or have a smart line, his superior would find a way to check him, and _hard_. It embittered him at the time, but he grew to understand and appreciate the lessons he learned. If only things hadn't fallen apart, maybe he could've wound up teaching Gabriel a thing or two.

He eased up his demeanor and twirled his revolver back into its resting place. "Now come on, this money ain't gonna gamble itself."

"Sure thing, Mr. McCree," his voice quivered. Faintly, McCree noticed the laughter of his fellow outlaws in the back corner. If only they were bad enough to get paid to taken care of, he'd teach _them_ a lesson, too. Unfortunately, keeping a low profile was hard enough for a cowboy in the 2070's, and attracting unwarranted attention was the last thing he wanted to do.

"McCree will do just fine," he assured, "Now _shoot._ "

Seemingly calmed a bit from the shock, he placed the bill on the table and started, "Jesse McCree," he declared, "I say you lost that arm the day you got nabbed by Overwatch."

A better guess than most, for sure, but still one that wasn't right. McCree reached out with his robotic prosthetic, plucked the bill from the table, and slid it on to the rest of the stack. "Good try, kid, but lady luck ain't on your side today."

"Ah, no!" he cried out. "I thought I had it, I really did!"

McCree shrugged and muttered quietly, "Everyone thinks they've got it figured out before it all comes crashin' down."

Old Tom guffawed from behind the counter, "Ah hell, Jesse, since when do you fancy yourself a philosopher?"

It hadn't occurred to the cowboy that anything he'd said actually been all that deep or introspective, but the more he dwelled on it, the more he realized just how right Old Tom was. McCree had been dwelling on the last ten years of his life ever since he got the call from that damn ape. His work catching various criminals and being a celebrated and respected hero made him believe that he _had_ finally figured things out. Doing good deeds and helping others – that felt _good._ It was only when his jobs began getting murkier and murkier in their purpose that he began to have his doubts. Each one had pushed the envelope a bit further, and his resolve along with it. That mission that made him quit in disgust, though… that was something else.

Reverting back to being a vigilante outlaw making ends meet, McCree had seen it all come crashing down, the same way this kid would if he kept up on his current career path. Someone had to stop these kids from cornering themselves. Someone had to try and make a better life for those getting by. Someone needed to be a _hero_.

So… that was it, then. McCree let his cigar fall to the floor before smothering it under his boot. He picked up the stack of money, heaved a heavy sigh, and filled and gulped down one last glass of whiskey before rising. "Alright then, Old Tom," he said, "think I'll be closin' my tab now."

As expected, the pudgy man's face changed to one of intrigue. "You moving on, Jesse?" he asked.

"Can't stay in one place too long, you know?" he said.

"I suppose not," Old Tom said. "Say, you promised me you'd pay when it came time for you to close out."

McCree nodded knowingly, the booze starting to settle in. He looked down at the stack of cash in his hand, exhaled, and quickly tossed into the chest of Old Tom. Better to part with it before he began regretting it. His quasi-therapist barely caught it in the suddenness of the movement. "Keep it warm for me," McCree said.

He swaggered his way, now a slight unsteadiness in his step, back towards the diner's exit. How the hell was he going to get to Spain undetected? Moving in the states proved easy enough, but international travel was a different sort of ballgame. A belch escaped him - _maybe_ it'd best to at least sleep on it before trying to open that Pandora's Box.

"Hey, Jesse," Old Tom called out. McCree spun back around with a curious glance. "Just _how did_ you lose that arm, anyways?"

The cowboy flashed a rare smile, his lips thinning visibly under his brown goatee. "High stakes poker game," he said. Then he tipped his hat, "Until next time, Tom."

Old Tom watched as the cowboy left his diner, baffled but also amused at the response. While the mystery would have to remain unsolved, at least Old Tom had something to show for it. He supposed he didn't know a lot about McCree. In fact, there was only one thing Tom knew for sure: wherever McCree was heading, he'd still be lost as hell when he got there.


End file.
